There’s a film which some people (me) like to watch at Christmas called The Holiday. It’s a terrible film, which includes a character who is both unable to cry and has been gaslighted by her ex into believing she’s bad at sex. It includes an exchange about foreplay being overrated; it’s trash. But, it’s festive trash. Anyway, the opening scene of the film involves Kate Winslet narrating lines about love, specifically unrequited love, which she is experiencing with her awful, awful ex-lover (he’s a columnist at The Daily Telegraph, which should have been a great big red flag all of its own).
One line states “Those of us who fall in love alone”. And it sounds incredibly lonely, doesn’t it? Lonely and cold, as though the other person is physically and emotionally detached from you. It evokes distance and some shame, or perhaps guilt, at you having fallen. Maybe it’s inferring a selfishness on your part; how dare you fall in love alone, against the wishes or will or feelings of the other. Maybe it’s pity; you poor thing, did you really expect them to fall in love with you too?
When I watched The Holiday this year, that line punched me with familiarity.
Because, my boyfriend doesn’t love me.
I love him. I’ve known I love him for a significant part of our relationship. It started with me not wanting to say goodbye at the end of our dates, and leaning in for yet another kiss to prolong the night. My skin began to prickle and fizz whenever he touched it. Then he moved into my thoughts; every day, every hour. I began to miss him within a few hours of having seen him. And the time between our dates seemed to drag more and more. The corners of my mouth would tug into a shy smile whenever someone mentioned him. Then, I started to have the urge to tell him I loved him; I wanted to end every conversation with it, every text, every voice note. I wanted to whisper it into his hair in the moments before he fell peacefully asleep on my chest.
But I held back, because I knew he didn’t love me.
I haven’t fallen in love alone: he’s been there, for every moment. Rather than fall with me, he caught me at the bottom. As we laughed and I felt a rush of love, he felt a rush of something different; but we still laughed together. I don’t feel shame, or guilt, or selfishness, because I fell for a really good person. And he loves to eat my cunt; who could pity me for loving him?
In Kate Winslet’s monologue, she goes on to say that the years she’s been in love with him (The Daily Telegraph dickhead) have been the darkest days of her life; miserable, because she’s been “cursed” by loving a man who doesn’t, and won’t, love her back.
But it’s not the unrequited love that’s made her miserable: it’s loving a horrible person. A person who treats her cruelly, dangling the possibility of affection and commitment in front of her before stealing it away when he gets what he wants. Someone seemingly completely uncaring of other people’s feelings. A narcissist.
I understood from the very beginning that my boyfriend would never love me, because he told me so. Not in a cruel, uncaring way, but as a matter of fact, because he’s not polyamorous. One of the great subtleties of non-monogamy at work: every relationship is different. He already has a great love in his life (his partner) and, for him, she is the only person he can love. And I accepted that. Accepted the risk that one day there would be inequality in feeling in our relationship. He never dangled anything, never made any false promises, never led me in any direction. He offered me a relationship full of fun, sex, friendship, and great affection, but not love, and I took it. And I’m fucking happy with it.
Unlike in The Holiday, my unrequited love doesn’t make me miserable, or lonely, and I’m not cursed by it; I’m just happy. I’m comfortable. I’m secure. Would I prefer it if he loved me back? I can’t think what difference it would make. We’re already sickeningly affectionate; falling asleep tangled in each other and, sometimes, even with our lips still pressed together from the good night kiss. We date, in public, and we make out, in public. We’re committed to each other, in that we’re committed to make each other happy for as long as we both remain happy. He’s met my nesting partner and my best friends (they all adore him). I’ve met his partner and their dog (I adore them both). I trust him, I feel safe with him, I feel respected.
There’s always the expectation, the hope, that love is something you share with another, that love is a two-sided coin. That love is lost and tragic without receiving it in return. But consider the odds involved: not least the probability of me meeting someone who is actually a good man, then I have to like and tolerate him enough to spend time with him, and that time then producing romantic feelings, but also the odds that they will feel the exact same way, at the exact same time. Love is rare, and special, and can be fleeting. Love is a chemistry experiment which sometimes doesn’t prove the hypothesis.
Girl On The Net recently wrote “Love is not just a feeling: love is a thing that you do”. He may not feel love, but he actively shows me that he cares, that I matter to him, that he wants to be with me, and that is what’s really important.
Even if he doesn’t love me.